“Is it so bad that I don’t trust you? Can you blame me?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t blame you, you’re right. You can’t trust me and you don’t have any reason to anymore, but I’m not leaving.”
“We’ll see,” Lana says before she turns away.
“You will!” I shout as she walks up the stairs of her porch.
“Shut up before I have you arrested for public disturbance!”
“Worth it!”
I don’t miss the small smile on her face before she closes the door.
CHAPTER 7
Lana
Books and Beans closed early today because of the impending storm. I love being the owner and making that decision on a rough day.
The summer storm coming feels like a bad omen, I have a migraine that won’tgive. Up.The blisters on my feet just get bigger and bloodier, and my body aches because of the shoes. I made myself and Natalia a promise to buy new sneakers tonight—order them online and they’ll get here the day after tomorrow. Until then, I will be working with my yellow Crocs.
Christian’s car isn’t in my driveway when I pull in, but it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon and sunny—the calm before the storm. Friday nights he’s gone for hours. By the time I leave for work in the morning, he’s gone and at the gym. He could be anywhere, but he isn’t here and he’s been living in my driveway for almost three weeks now.
Do I really want him living in my driveway?
I put my Jeep in park and shut the engine, and my forehead falls onto the steering wheel. Christian is the most… I hate it. I hate that I miss his car in my driveway and I hate that I want totell him to stay in my guest room on the first floor. And I hate that I don’t want to shout at him to get out of my driveway and stay at the town’s B&B. He would do it in a heartbeat if I told him it was what I wanted.
I groan loudly, the sounding echoing around the Jeep before I hop out. I only allow myself to look over my shoulder once, just to make sure his car really isn’t here, before I get to my front door. My key slips into the lock and I take a step forward just to nearly trip over something and fall on my face.
I stub my toe in my sandal and hiss. “Shit.”
On my welcome mat, I finally see two packages at my front door with my name on both of them.
Lana Aurora Gomez.
I read it in my mothers gentle voice.
But it doesn’t do anything to soothe the anger.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble, snatching the packages inside and slamming the door behind me. “I’m going to kill him.”
I throw the boxes onto the wooden floors of my house and kick off my sandals at the door, slamming the keys on the entrance table. I swear this man knows how to piss me off, he’s had a ton of practice and I want to rip out his hair!
I toss my purse on my couch and take the packages with me to my kitchen. Every single one of my movements are hard, tense, and aggressive. From yanking open the drawer for the scissors to slamming it closed with my hip, and then stabbing the pointed end through the tape, grunting.
The first box has another gray, silver box within it. I scoff.Balenciaga.
I take out the shoe box and slap away the empty cardboard box. Sneakers. Clean, pristine, white sneakers in a unique shape that look far more comfortable than any of mine.Cursing under my breath, I open the other cardboard box. This one also has another shoe box within it, of course, but this one makes me growl.
Balmain.
I punch away the empty cardboard and open the white shoe box.
Clean, smooth, and black combat boots with a golden B on the buckle around the ankle. I hate them. I hate them so much I run my fingers over the smooth, perfect black leather and want it to be fall or winter so I can wear them with my favorite pair of mom jeans and my oversized corduroy jacket or something.
I hate the shoes. They’re perfect!
The knock on my door pulls me out of my combat boot haze and I stomp toward my yellow painted front door, looking forward to a fight. Or slashing his tires.
